


In Which Davesprite Gets a Present and Also Maybe a Girlfriend. And a Boyfriend. Because You Can't Have Just One.

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Affection, Cuddling & Snuggling, Human Davesprite, Injury Recovery, Other, Post-Sburb, Prosthesis, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 08:29:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3685308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“D-Spri,” she says, now bouncing as she hugs you, her scarf flopping over your shoulder, “D-Spri, no lie, we’ve got the best flipping surprise for you-”</p><p>“You’re in on this too?” you say, one raised eyebrow becoming two raised eyebrows; she babbles techno geek jargon at you about programs and finishes and 'we couldn’t decide on silver or gold so we went bronze' and you’re highly confused, but just go with it as she tugs you down the hall to Dirk’s room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Davesprite Gets a Present and Also Maybe a Girlfriend. And a Boyfriend. Because You Can't Have Just One.

**Author's Note:**

> for this wonderful art piece by Roxasdestati on Tumblr
> 
> http://roxasdestati.tumblr.com/post/107375812792/i-have-a-lot-of-feelings-about-dirk-and-roxy

You’d never really noticed as a sprite, but as a human, it’s impossible not to: it’s fucking _hard_ to stay balanced when you’re missing about eight pounds of ballast from one side.

 

You’d expected something to be missing when you’d gotten spat out of that godforsaken game along with just about everyone who’d ever even known about it, because the game operates on a strange sort of equivalence, a give and take; it’d been in your head, in your heart, your mind and body slave it its whims and regulations for years, so you know little details that other people don’t.

 

So yeah, you’d been expecting something to be missing when you got back, but not this. Your whole arm is gone, ripped away from your newly minted body because of course, the game couldn’t have just brought you back without one. That wouldn’t be _taking_ , would it? It’d brought you back whole, then stripped you of things it deemed you had to give- your arm, and the muscles in your legs, atrophied like you’d spent all that time with a tail just lounging around in bed, instead of desperately attempting to save the universe.

 

A pretty shitty reward in your opinion, but hey, no one’s asking you. In fact, no one’s asking you anything; you’re not Dave anymore, after all. _He’s_ Dave, he’s _the_ Dave, and you… have no place with them. Not here, and not now.

 

You haven’t bothered to try to find a new name yet. In your list of things to worry about, so far it’s rated as a topic of least concern, in your eyes. Everyone just shuffles around your existence, awkwardly calling you ‘man’, ‘dude’, ‘hey’, and, when they have no other option [when you ignore them and force them to call you by your title] ‘Davesprite’. Even though you aren’t, not anymore.

 

The only ones who haven’t treated you like some sort of accidental prom night baby are Dirk, and the chick that Dirk hangs out with, Roxy.

 

They’re nice. You like them.

 

Which is why you don’t sic your crow buddies on Dirk when he comes slinking out of his room to the roof, to your safe place. Dave doesn’t like it up here- the crows annoy him, and he and Bro have found better places to strife.

 

“Hey,” he says, short and simple and to the point; Dirk doesn’t talk much, not out loud. Conversations with him online are still filled with flowing paragraphs of drawn out metaphors and shit, but in real life, he’s… quieter. Almost soft spoken, if you dared say it.

 

“Hey,” you respond in turn; a crow flutters off your shoulder to nest in his hair, and he doesn’t even twitch. He’s good with them, doesn’t bat them away or smack at their wings with his hands, like Dave does whenever he deigns to come outside.

 

No, he just makes a soft sound and raises a finger to scratch the small bird under her chin; his eyes are focused on you, though, along with what you’re sure is 98% of his attention.

 

“I’ve got something for you. Surprise. You’ll love it.”

 

“Any chance you can tell me what it is?” you say, knowing already the answer is ‘no’; as if to prove you right, Dirk’s stoic facade cracks a bit, and he lets the tiniest of smirks pull at the corners of his lips.

 

“You’ll love it,” he repeats, and sometimes it’s hard to remember that this kid was raised by robots, but other times… Shit. He has the best monotone you’ve ever heard.

 

With a little whistle and a soft snap of your fingers, the three birds perching on various body parts all take off, though one gives your messy hair a bit of a preen before she flutters away. Ridiculous animals- they should know by now that your hair will always be a disaster.

 

Dirk is standing beside you in a moment, your crutch held out; you hate it, but you can’t walk well without it so you grip the crossbar, the metal band touching cold to the skin of your forearm, and lever yourself up, leaning against Dirk for support for a bare second before straightening up. You’re still a little off balance, and your legs tremble as you force them to carry your weight, but you’re fine. You’re doing exercises to get those muscles back in shape, and you know it’s only a matter of time before you get to set the fucking crutches on fire. Your arm, though…

 

Roxy is waiting for the two of you at the bottom of the stairs, bouncing excitedly. You give her a grin, and she wraps her arms around you; it’s a careful hug, one specifically tailored not to knock you off balance, or put any weight on you that you can’t handle. The care she puts into that one act… well.

 

It makes you want to cry, if you’re being perfectly honest. They both make you want to cry, sometimes, but you are a Strider, goddammit, even if Bro seems lax about that shit now, lazing around on his couch with his smuppets and his swords and what have you. Striders don’t cry.

 

“D-Spri,” she says, now bouncing as she hugs you, her scarf flopping over your shoulder, “D-Spri, no lie, we’ve got the best flipping surprise for you-”

 

“You’re in on this too?” you say, one raised eyebrow becoming two raised eyebrows; she babbles techno geek jargon at you about programs and finishes and _we couldn’t decide on silver or gold so we went bronze_  and you’re highly confused, but just go with it as she tugs you down the hall to Dirk’s room.

 

More like his workshop, really; Dirk ends up sleeping on the floor most of the time, or on the couch, or in someone else’s room, or in the kitchen- wherever he happens to pass out at the time. His actual room is a mess of technology and robotics equipment, and you’re always slightly astounded at how much he manages to fit in such a small space every time you walk in. Roxy ushers you over to a chair and you drop down into it, as ordered; Dirk digs something out from under his worktable and plops it down on the cheap plywood desk in front of you, the poor thing wobbling under the weight.

 

“Open it,” is all he says, though that smirk has become a full smile, now- or at least, what can be considered a full smile, for Dirk.

 

You have to undo the latches one at a time; it takes you almost two minutes to get it all undone, and you can see Roxy practically vibrating next to you, but she doesn’t push you to go faster or undo everything herself. She’s good like that. She lets you take your time, and you do, slowly levering the box open with the tips of your fingers, letting the lid crash to the desk behind it.

 

Still, all the time in the world would not have prepared you for the item in the box.

 

It’s… it’s an arm. An arm, a prosthetic, all sharp, neat edges and bronze finish, and you blink a bit before you turn your eyes up to Dirk, gaping.

 

“You said,” he mumbles, head ducked low, fingers picking at his cuticles, “that you wanted one. Earlier. I’ve been working on it. ‘S not perfect, but-”

 

“It’s- it’s fantastic,” you cut him off, trembling because you want to hug him, you want to thank him, but you know he doesn’t like touch unless he knows when and where it’s coming from, “Fuck, Dirk it’s- this is- I thought you said-”

 

“Not possible with today’s current technology, I know,” he replies, voice back up to audible ranges as he looks up, “I fixed that.”

 

You sling your arm around Roxy instead, and hug her tight as you can with half your grip; she hugs you back, her fingers threading through your hair, her soft voice mumbling things about bird’s nests and how you _better not get bird poop on your shiny new arm, Mr, because I’m not cleaning that shit_.

 

“I can put it on now,” he says, reaching out; his hand only hesitates for a moment before it’s on your shoulder, and you know it’s because of his own issues with touching and being touched, not because that’s the side with your stump. It warms your chest, makes your heart feel fluttery, and you nod, sitting up a bit and letting Roxy slip out of your arms.

 

“It’ll hurt,” he warns, leaning over; he scoops you up with little difficulty, and gently dumps you straight onto his unmade bed, brushing the comforter down to the foot of the mattress so you’re lying flat on plain white sheets.

Roxy settles against your side, her thigh pressing against your shoulder, a solid warmth that has your breath easing just a bit; she leans back against the headboard and reaches down to help you tug off your shirt and get settled, shifting to run her fingers through your hair again once you're back down, humming softly.

 

“It plugs straight into your arm. There’s a bunch’a technological whatsit that'd put you straight to sleep, Davey, but don’t worry, D-Stri and I collaborated on the programming parts- you’re in the best hands _ever_.”

 

You trust them, you do, but you can’t quite let Dirk feed you pills to make you sleep, deciding to stay up and awake during the short procedure; after the first three seconds, you’re crying, and the first minute, you pretty much wish you hadn’t been so stubborn.

 

But Dirk knows what he’s doing, and Roxy is an apt distraction; she coos to you, makes shitty bird jokes and puns and touches your face softly with warm hands while Dirk works as fast as he safely can; in time, you’re plugged in, and you can feel the beginnings of sensation at the tips of fingers you thought long gone.

 

“There,” he murmurs, and his hands are gentle and cold, thin fingered and calloused as they lever you up, leaning you back to rest beside Roxy as you catch your breath, “Done.”

 

“It’ll take a while for you to get the feelings back in your feathers, Davey,” Roxy says, one hand bracing your shoulder, “But pretty soon you’ll be free to fly.”

 

Dirk’s hands are like ice packs around the attachment sight, his fingers rubbing over the joint where metal meets skin; he nods, a rhythmic bob of his head, thumb smoothing over skin, then metal, then skin again. You think he likes the texture difference under his hands; you certainly don’t mind his hands on your arm.

 

They just… sit with you, for a while. It’s nice. Peaceful, even, especially with Dirk’s fingers soothing away the soreness in your stump [except holy shit it’s not a stump anymore you have an arm and a fist and fingers you can curl and touch things with] and Roxy humming in your ear, twining your hair into tiny braids.

 

For a moment, you think you know what true love feels like, and it’s sitting in bed with your two favorite people in the whole world, with them breathing the same air as you, sharing the same space as you, in contact with you.

 

And then Roxy ruins it by flopping face first into your stomach, blowing a raspberry into the scar that cuts down your chest and abdomen; your knees fold in and you accidentally kick her in the ass, and she topples over onto you. You, in turn, fall into Dirk, and he just supports you and does that little half-snort you recognize after all this time as a laugh.

 

You’re sandwiched between them, Dirk’s hands pressing against your chest from behind, Roxy’s against your back from the front; Roxy lets out a sound akin to a pleased cat and nuzzles into your chest, and you just… go limp between them, giving up.

 

If they wanna cuddle you that bad, well, who are you to stop them?

 

Why would you stop them? It’s nice. It’s… it’s nice, being touched like this, being hugged and cuddled and being in _contact_.  That was the thing you’d hated the most about coming back, you think- everyone avoiding you, avoiding touching you, as if you were something that could shatter.

 

After all the shit you’ve been through, you _better_ not fucking shatter at a touch.

 

But Roxy, but Dirk… they didn’t really know Dave. They don’t see you as just a copy of someone they were already friends with. You are a separate entity. You are… _you_.

 

They see you as you, and nothing else.

 

Your hand, the flesh and blood one, lands on the back of Roxy’s head. your twine your fingers in her soft hair, and rub your thumb against the hollow behind her ear. Dirk’s fingers tangle with your metal ones, and you can feel his warmth in a way that makes you shiver all over. You lay there, between them, with them, and just… breathe.

 

Breathing is simple, is easy; it's easier with them there, warming you up, keeping your grounded. You close your eyes and let yourself drift, secure between them, nestled in the perfect space between their bodies, like that space had been made for you.

 

Like you belong there.

  
  
  



End file.
